Of Better Times And Understanding
by TheStolenQuill
Summary: By then he was certain that there was nothing in his life he wanted more than her -but it was wrong. Wrong and dangerous. She would never be safe with him, he knew. But she was oblivious to this... because he had a secret. A secret she could never know.


**A/N: **_So I finally managed to get this story up! It's been hovering in my head for quite a while by now. (: Before we get to the story, just a set of quick notes: _

_1. The story is set after the war: both Draco and Hermione are 24 year olds._

_2. As much as I'd love to, I'm not precisely what you'd call quick with story updates, so don't expect a new chapter right away. That said, I'll get to it as hastily as I can 3_

_3. I automatically love you just for stumbling across this story (: _

_4. Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger and all the other characters that might appear throughout the story belong to JKR –unless otherwise stated. Plot and written words belong to me, and if ever I decide to 'borrow' something from another writer, I'll give proper credit. (:_

_5. Constructive feedback would be lovely 3_

_Let's move on to the story, now, shall we?_

**C H A P T E R O N E**

( The Boy Who Made All The Wrong Choices )

There was always something odd about walking into a familiar classroom and not having to occupy the student's seat anymore. Draco Malfoy eyed the dark room, pacing slowly as he let his mind wander back, way back in time to the early point in life where his was so much easier –enjoyable, almost. And what an irony, indeed, that fate had decided to thrust him back to the very place where it had all begun; back to the point of no return.

"_Draco__, years ago, I knew a__boy__who made all the__wrong choices__…_

…_Please let me help you."_

It was not without frequency that the man would hear Dumbledore's voice inside his head, as vividly and clearly as if it had been just yesterday. Not the least bit comforting, needless to say –and that, to put it nicely. One of the very last words of a man who knew was inches away from his own death, yet, there he'd been, the dying wizard: so weak but so serene while he had tried his best to convince him that redemption could be achieved by those who truly sought it.

As if something like that would ever fall within his reach.

A weary movement of his wrist was all he had needed in order to send his luggage to his chambers. Plenty of time to meet all of his Hogwarts colleagues later on; for now, Draco just wanted to spend some precious time alone. Right _there_. Right then.

A slow but consecutive set of footfalls echoed softly across the room as the not so young now wizard took his time to take in every detail of the cold and purposely abandoned room. Apparently, nothing had been touched since before the last Hogwarts battle. And if his memory wasn't failing him –which it wasn't, for sure- then Draco knew these dusty walls had been last touched by no other than Severus Snape.

It was during his seventh year –during Snape's first and last year as Headmaster of Hogwarts- that the man had asked for his old potions class to remain exclusively for his own use, and his use alone. Unsurprisingly enough, it seemed as if it had been one of the very few places of Hogwarts that had survived the war, practically unscathed. No doubt owed to the fact that it was safely located beneath the ground. And as far as he could see, Draco could tell that no one at school had dared disrupt the area since then, as if a change could somehow rip out a small part of Snape's soul; the one that kept the room so fresh that –except, perhaps, for the dust- you could almost have believed that he had just exited the place to fetch a certain plant from a greenhouse, or to simply get something to eat.

Except he wasn't coming back –that small detail made all the difference.

And now it seemed that the very task of cleaning this room had been reserved for him. How… _kind_, of them, really. How kind of them all, indeed, knowing that if ever there was someone that Draco Malfoy had looked up on during all those seven years as student, then that was without a doubt the… traitor. The bleeding double agent.

…His deceased potions master.

There were a fair amount of things that he so longed to share with his portrait, all right. Because there _were_ –but now was not the moment. Not the time, at all, for painful, bitter stories of a past that might have been, just then… but could not be changed now.

Having arrived at the front desk, Draco outstretched a hand, reaching out to touch –_caress_- the old, wooden piece of furniture, His long, pale fingers ran through every scratch and every line with smooth caution. Oh, how he could really use a restful sleep just about then. The man didn't really need to look at the reflection that any mirror would show him to know just how profoundly carved in his skin his eye bags were –how pale and weak he really looked.

After the imprisonment of his father, and weeks and weeks of hiding and running away from his deadly persecutors, it seemed almost impossible for Draco to get used to the idea that he was finally in safe harbor. Then again, no more ridiculous than the idea of his having been accepted as new Potions Master, right after professor Slughorn –which he now was, as a matter of fact.

Well, it sure as hell wasn't a problem if the entire world decided to go mad and offer him the job. It should have been common knowledge around those with whom he would be working with that unlike _his _Potions Master, Hogwarts had never truly been his home. And seven years after Voldemort's downfall, Malfoy found himself being hated by everyone he crossed paths with; those who had been in favor of The Dark Lord, because he had acted like a total coward without helping much throughout the war, whilst those who had fought alongside Harry Potter because… well, more of the same, really.

Not that it bothered him much, after all; the feeling was rather mutual. And last time he checked, Draco was most definitely not at Hogwarts to fraternize with his co-workers. Only to save his own skin, primarily, then to teach and grade –and that was just about it. No more, no less.

The blatant irony was quick to hit him in the face, and Draco's lips twisted rather involuntarily to form a bitter smile. Cold, secluded, dark… the more he thought about it, the more proof he had of his close resemblance with Professor Severus Snape. Yes, it was ironic. Ironic, to be sure, that the favored student should pick up the legacy where his favorite teacher had left it -providing, of course, that he had been favored in a genuine way, and not merely out of sheer pretense. Too much had been revealed after the war for Draco to be too sold on any type of hopeful, happy ideas. It was almost upsetting, almost heartbreaking to see how much distrust the wizard placed on everything that came his way.

Then again: commonplace survival rule no. 139.

Right then an unexpected sound reached his ears. It was the sound of someone else in the room –unmistakable. '_Who the hell could that be?'_ Draco thought, mildly irritated due to such a sudden, unnecessary disruption; the wizard turned round almost at the same time as an oddly familiar female voice talked.

"…Professor Malfoy?" the witch had said, rather timidly.

Draco raised an inquiring eyebrow –very likely the only sign that could have disclosed his genuine inward surprise, for there was no denying that this had been quite a surprise. No one spoke again, as the gentle echo of those two uttered words died away, vanishing slowly. Draco had witnessed how they had made its way past her mouth, her dubious approach not being entirely lost on him. Well… at least physically, she hadn't changed that much, not since the last time he had seen her. Deep ocean orbs glanced back at the female's hazel eyes before Draco decided to turn round again, walking slowly towards the other side of the desk after what might have been several seconds, or maybe even a minute –who knew.

It was a bizarre feeling, and he didn't really know why… but in truth, there had been something unsettling about her gaze. But Draco hastily regained his composure. "… Yes, Granger?" he finally inquired in his trademark detached manner, since she was giving no signs of going on -and he was curious, utterly curious as to the reason behind her visit.

Yes. Reason. There was _obviously _a reason behind her visit -else she wouldn't have come all the way down to the dungeons just to greet him before the start of this new school year. True, things hadn't ended up too badly between him and the Gryffindor Golden Trio after the final battle –but last time he'd checked, things hadn't ended well, either. War just had that odd effect of bringing up the best and worse -and unknown- in everyone, so saving each other's lives could hardly be considered as a noble act. And it didn't matter: oh, the countless times that he had called her mudblood –and the one slap that he had received from her during their third year. Somewhat absent-mindedly, Draco's hand went up to his cheek, and stroked the skin of that area gently. No. Granger was definitely here for one good reason.

"… I just wanted to welcome you, that's all" the female answered back; sheepishly, softly, as she took several steps forward, towards the desk –towards _him_.

But the wizard merely snorted. He turned his head back to meet her eyes. His irises might have held too much harshness just then, for she broke eye contact almost a split second after meeting her gaze -which displeased him even more. '_Such a filthy little hypocrite!'_

Outwardly, though, Draco waved a hand rather dramatically "Granger" –Alas, calling her 'professor' was certainly going to take some getting used to- "As you can _see, _I'm rather busy at the moment, and have no time for chit-chat" he said in the most cold and uncaring manner that he could produce. "So…" the wizard straightened up, glaring back at her from the other side of the desk "consider myself greeted. Feel free to leave at ease now. Have a nice start of a year yourself."

'_Have a nice start of a year yourself'. _Yeah, those were the words that had left his parted lips. Maybe if he had _tried_, simply tried a bit, she might have even half-believed that wish. Such a pity that it just had to be drenched with the usual mockery and disdain. As always.

Hermione couldn't help it; although she had never been as awful as her friend Harry at controlling her own emotions, one couldn't quite say that it had ever been her forte, either. "_Why_ do you always have to be such a bastard?" she cried back. "Can't you see? Can't you _see_ that the whole school hates you, that you're completely alone in this? Alone as you probably have never been in your entire life?" the brown haired female sighed; Draco was fairly surprise to find that it was actually a sigh of sheer despair.

A remarkable hole in one, though –the witch had definitely struck a nerve. Two intense silent seconds preceded her following sentence, as she visibly tried to get a hold on herself. When she spoke again her tone, though hurt, was notoriously less passionate. "If you must know, _Malfoy_." she stressed that last word, coldly "I was actually here to make a truce."

_A truce? !_

It was terribly unavoidable; Draco's emotionless mask dropped slightly to reveal blatant astonishment. The giveaway was in his eyes, and in his lips, who had parted enough to assume that he was actually going to say something… but nothing came out of his mouth.

Surprisingly enough, it seemed as if she had more than enough to say for the both of them that evening. Hermione's next question came out of the blue, taking Draco off-guard again, not having entirely gotten over the previous one just yet.

Hermione's words were barely more than a whisper. "Why have you come to Hogwarts, Malfoy?"

Draco eyed her, trying his hardest to upkeep a decently severe and guarded manner. "What are you talking about, Granger?" a flicker of distaste crossed the wizard's features, but Hermione chose to distrust it.

"You heard it. Why are you _here_ -at Hogwarts, of all places?" she insisted "It was never your home to start off with. Not even back then when you were liked and admired by that sick, thick set of puppets that used to follow you everywhere you went. So why now? Tell me… why _now_?"

Dear, oh dear… The Gryffindor was certainly pushing the buttons -and she was pushing them a bit too dangerously. The male darted onwards at a fairly alarming pace, stopping only inches away from her, hoping that such an action would somehow intimidate her.

Hermione did stare back at him with wider eyes, but she refused to take a step backwards. Her tone was not as confident as she had hoped it to be, however: "You know, I'm no longer afraid of y-"

"Lets _say_…" the wizard cut her in his sharpest of manners, his iced eyes glinting rather dangerously in the penumbra, even though his voice was no more than a hushed whisper. "Let's just _say_ that I was here for a… _reason_…"

And then –just then…

…The entire world stopped for a moment.

It had something to do with her eyes, undoubtedly -something to do with the way that she was looking right back at him. And it was strange -_and_ thrilling, _and_ frightening, and… _human_, all the same- to discover that there was something quite… pleasant about it all. About how close she was to him, how beautifully wide her hazel eyes stared right back at his, how amazingly-

Wait –_Wait_!

A hazardous thing to feel. Draco blamed the lack of female company in his life for this shameless moment of weakness. But be it one way or another, it _really_ had to stop. Utterly careful not to dislodge his well-worked emotionless façade, Draco took one step away from Hermione, allowing himself one more glance back at Hermione before turning around, walking away from her.

"If I were even here for a reason, Granger…" the wizard spoke, his back to her face. "Then _what_ makes you think I would tell _you_?"

He couldn't see her face, he couldn't watch her reaction. But, really… why would he care? The male just stood there, hand on the mahogany wood of the old desk, while he waited, patiently for her answer. Any answer –anything would do to satisfy him.

But nothing came. So Draco decided to press on the matter. "Clearly, some things never change… you silly little know it all! You think you know and need to know everything there is to know about everyone –or every circumstance, for that matter…" the male took one of the pieces of parchment that were laid on the desk and lifted it up, pretending to examine it in a casual way; he could tell she had not left… yet. "Well, here's some handy piece of news for you, Granger: you don't _need_ to know it all. Therefore, _my_ issues would most certainly be none of your business." Said he.

Silence, still. Damn it.

And then it came; the softest of whispers. Yet, somehow, the message managed to find its way right up to its destination.

"If you must know, _Malfoy_… I was also here to tell you that I'm sorry for what happened to your mother –I've heard about the funeral."

It wasn't so much what she had said as the way that she had said it. The witch was hurt. And… heavens, had he heard right? Had that actually been a sob? There wasn't a chance to find it out, though, for before he could have a chance to turn around, before he could find anything sensible to answer her, Granger-

'_Hermione_… '

… was gone.


End file.
